


THE LONG RUN

by Mikkeneko



Series: Anders Goes to Orzammar [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Zevran gives no fucks, Zevran/Anders (past), Zevran/Warden Brosca (mentioned), post-Kirkwall Anders, that means he's not in a good place right now, with no Hawke in sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8737423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: In the winter of 9:37 Dragon, Zevran is hunting in the wilderness of the Free Marches when he stumbles on a refugee, fleeing from pursuit and fallen on hard times. To his great surprise, it's an old friend he knew in Amaranthine, seven years ago. The world has changed a lot since then.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic occupies a somewhat peculiar liminal space in terms of worldstates. It is definitely part of the 'One Elegant Solution' world, and consequences flow directly from this to later stories. But it also exists as a sort of sequel to **[Brandygram,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4035883/chapters/9076297)** the one-shot I wrote ages ago where Zevran encounters Anders at Vigil's Keep and has a marvelous time with him. 
> 
> I've chosen not to add 'Brandygram' to the list of OES fics, partly because it doesn't really fit in tone or theme, but also because there are worldstate inconsistencies -- in Brandygram, Brosca chose to leave the Keep unfortified and most of the companions died; in OES, Brosca chose to defend the Keep and let Amaranthine burn. Obviously, both cannot be true in the same time. 
> 
> Neither are really my true worldstate, of course -- for one, all of my Wardens fortified the Keep, and for another, I have no worldstate in DA2 where Hawke abandons Anders after Kirkwall -- but it's hardly the first time I pick and choose worldstate details to make a better story.

 

Winter in the Free Marches meant rain. 

It didn't snow much. The presence of the Waking Sea between them provided a tempering influence for the cold clouds that blew up from the snowbound south. The sea subdued all to its temperature, heat and chill alike, and passed it on to the northern shored in the form of a steady stream of cold, drenching rain. In the deep winter sometimes that became freezing rain, sleet or even hail; but mostly it was just steady, grey, bone-chilling rain. 

Of the alternatives, Zevran preferred it. An Antivan boy born and bred, he was accustomed to the warmer temperatures of the north, but he'd spent enough time touring the southern kingdoms to have gained a new appreciation for snow -- and its hazards. Endless rain was miserable, but not stifling like snow; cold water was quenching, but not paralyzing like ice. For the most part, business in the Free Marches went on in the winter with little regard for the seasons, and that was how Zevran liked it. He had a hunt on -- a long run, a years-long vendetta against the Crows that showed no sign of coming to an end any time soon -- and there was so much to be done, and for so long, that he did not fancy having to put his hunt on hold for a season, giving his quarry time to retreat and regroup. 

That wasn't to say that things ran entirely smoothly, of course. He was in Hercinia, a fair-sized port town in the Free Marches, awaiting both an opening and an exit. There was a guild chapter in Hercinia he was determined to shut down, but he had learned by experience that it was not healthy to linger in town once the local guildmaster came down with a sudden case of death. It tended to be catching. 

Unfortunately, the ship he had booked to Rialto was late -- delayed for a week, the news had it, due to heavy ice storms in the Waking Sea. So he had time to kill, for a little slice of time; and while he _could_ have spent it lounging around in Hercinia eating grapes and composing more poetry to send to his dear Warden across the sea, a well-developed survival instinct warned him against spending so much time pinned down in a single spot. 

That left him here, wandering the hills above Hercinia in the winter rains. He was used to traveling rough by now; too many nights in the comfort of an inn would simply make him fat and soft, and then he'd have to train himself to living wild all over again. 

Or so he told himself. 

But the real reason he was out wandering the hills of the Free Marches was not in town behind him, but out in the woods ahead of him. He had picked up a trail on his way across country -- a familiar trail, left by a familiar print of boot. There were Crows out here, somewhere in the wilderness ahead of him, and he had turned aside from his larger hunt to fill some time by hunting these two down. 

He caught up with them in late afternoon three days out of Hercinia, the grey winter sunlight already fading wanly over the horizon and filling the rugged landscape ahead with grey on grey. Zevran flitted from shadow to shadow, moving not silently -- for the wild was never truly silent -- but at the same level of ambient noise as any other wild creature. Undetected and unexpected, he scaled the face of a steep hill overlooking his target and paused for a time just below the summit, watching his intended victims. 

They were not here for a holiday; that much was apparent in their gear and their demeanor. There were three of them, a typical Crow team, and the thought still sent a pain through his heart that had long since grown scar tissue over it. One of them slept, a muddle of dirty blankets, while the other two watched the dell below for _their_ target. One had a blowgun, another a slingshot; their more deadly weapons were sheathed, for now. 

It was a strange configuration, but Zevran recognized the pattern of behavior. The Crows below him were engaging in the Long Run, a particular style of hunt used for when the quarry was too dangerous to be confronted directly. The Crows would stalk their target through the wilderness for a period of days, maybe even weeks -- staying out of sight, out of reach, but close enough to harass and harry their prey relentlessly. Slingshots, harmless but painful, any time the target tried to sleep; filth to spoil any water the target might drink, bows to drive away any potential game animals the target might eat. After long enough without good food, water or sleep, even Thedas' most dangerous criminals -- or doughty heroes -- would become exhausted and weak, easy prey. 

It was a fiendishly effective strategy, really. If Zevran had really wanted to kill the Last Warden, all those years ago, he ought to have tried to employ it. 

But then, it was just as well that he had not; else he never would have met the love of his life, the Hero of Ferelden, and the salvation of the world, in that approximate order.

Zevran returned his attention to the Crows beneath him, and contemplated how best to kill them. He did so not because he bore them any particular grudge, nor because he felt any particular sympathy for whatever luckless target they pursued -- but because this was who he was now, this was what he was. He was the nemesis of the Crows, and the guild had learned to hate him, _would_ learn to fear him. So long as he moved through the world, no Crow would be safe, no Master could hope to fulfill his contracts, no business would get done. Ever. 

He spent some time watching the three assassins, learning their moves and temperaments, oblivious to the rain trickling down off the edge of his mask. Of the three, two were elvhen men and one was a human woman; one of the elves was sleeping while his partners kept watch. They conversed, to pass the time, in low tones that brought the tantalizing hint of a familiar accent to Zevran's ears but no words. 

Still he waited. The sky darkened further; the Crow who had been resting snorted awake. More low-voiced debate, and then the elvhen man was standing up and wringing water out of his blankets while the human woman settled down in the sheltered spot he'd vacated. As she fussed the blankets into an appropriate warmth-retaining cocoon about her, the recent sleeper yawned and stretched, then spoke a few laconic words before wandering away from the campsite into the woods surrounding. The other elvhen man stayed, staring down at their unseen quarry below. 

This was the opportunity Zevran had been waiting for. They were likely unskilled, easy for him to take on all three in a fight at once if need; but if there was no need, then why try? Much easier to wait for them to isolate themselves… just like this. 

He moved off the rock and slipped after the lone man. The Crow didn't go far, to his credit, merely out of sight around a tree and a rock outcropping… but that was alone enough for Zevran's purposes. He slipped up behind the man as he stood rocking on his heels, adding his own contribution to the trickling rain, and moved like a striking snake. 

A tight elbow around the neck prevented any outcry; the point of his dagger found the seam of Crow armor with the ease of long practice, and the momentum of his violent embrace drove the dagger home. There was no shout, only the most muffled of grunts, the sound of the blade sliding through flesh felt more than heard. 

He caught the body as it fell, lowering it so as not to cause a thud, then swiftly moved around through the trees. He'd made almost no noise, but the remaining two Crows were already alerted, suspicious; the man had his dagger out, looking intently towards the woods where his comrade had disappeared, and the woman was beginning to free herself from the blankets. 

Zevran did not wait for them to find their balance. He moved swiftly, flowing over the rough ground like a shadow, and was up close and personal with the man before he could turn around to face the new threat. He threw a handful of poison dust into the woman's face before she had a chance to free herself or move away. She shouted, then coughed as she inhaled a faceful of it; then began coughing and hacking in earnest as the poison began to do its work in her lungs. 

It likely would not be enough to kill her, but it wasn't meant to -- merely to keep her occupied while he dealt with her partner. This one was more on his guard than his erstwhile companion had been, and he managed to twist away from Zevran's killing thrust and interpose his own blade between them. Their blades locked, and for a moment they were face-to-face, the Crow's face a rictus of terror as the imposing, impersonal mask of the crow skull loomed in his vision. 

Behind the mask, Zevran smiled; he flung their locked blades aside, opening up the man's center, and his second dagger came up and slashed the man's throat. 

He fell to his knees, choking and spurting blood, and Zevran whirled to face the last assassin. She had somehow gotten free from the entangling blankets and gotten her weapon, though she still wheezed for breath; she was backing away, not rushing to engage. She scrambled over wet rock and through mud on her hands and knees, eyes wide with terror as Zevran approached with measured steps. 

"No! Let me go! Who _are_ you?" she cried, and Zevran felt a little sorry for her. 

A little. But not much. 

"I _am_ sorry, my dear," he told her, and covered the rest of the distance in a flash. A well placed kick knocked the dagger out of her hands -- she hadn't been holding it very firmly -- and he seized her head in his hands as his own dagger pressed against the side of her throat. "When you see Master Raggio in the Void -- give his spirit my regards." 

Without further pause for banter, he broke her neck. 

The _crack_ echoed around the ravine, and then it was silent but for the falling rain. 

Zevran took his time cleaning up, in no particular hurry now that the task was accomplished. He searched their bodies for anything valuable, but did not expect to find much -- it was not the Crows but their masters who got rich off the contract killings. He collected their weapons, a few baubles, and a scrap of paper that was probably the description of their target. He dragged the three bodies together in the culvert under the cliff and laid them out in moderately dignified poses; it was far too wet to burn them, but he kicked a screen of rock and branches over their corpses, nevertheless. 

He examined the paper, but it was far too waterlogged to be legible. Who had they been chasing all the way out here in the hinterlands -- valuable enough to be worth a team of three Crows, yet dangerous enough to require a Long Run instead of simply overwhelming them with numbers? 

Curiosity won out, and Zevran decided to go and see this target of theirs. It was getting dark, and there was no particular rush to set out again today. Perhaps he could befriend this stranger and share their fire tonight; or, if it came down to it, he could always kill them. 

The Crows' target was not hard to find; he merely had to pick his way down the slope into the dell. A ragged thread of smoke marked his destination, which somewhat surprised him; not only that a person running from the Crows would risk a fire, but also that they managed to start one and keep it going despite the drenching wet. It was a good sign, though -- perhaps tonight would not have to be so wet and miserable, after all. 

The floor of the dell revealed a ragged little campsite, not much more than a crude firepit and a sputtering fire under an overhanging rock. A haggard figure was crouched by the fire; he stood up quickly as Zevran materialized at the edge of the trees. 

Definitely a _he,_ Zevran thought, and definitely human; but it was hard to tell many details past that, since the man was beyond filthy. His muddy brown hair was plastered against his head; hard to tell if that was its natural color, or if water or mud had darkened it. Dark eyes in deep, shadowed hollows; a messy growth of beard over gaunt cheeks (Zevran was eternally glad that elves did not have to put up with such things.) The haggard face topped a throat that was equally hollow, and a collection of skinny limbs in torn, muddy clothes. 

What a mess. But then, if he truly had been the target of a Long Run, it was no wonder that he was sleepless and starving. Zevran mentally recounted the amount of food he had in his packs, and stepped forward. 

"Stay back!" the man shouted, staggering back a step and holding out one hand warningly. "Don't come any closer. If you come too close, I'll kill you!" 

Zevran paused in mid-step. This was far from the first time he'd been threatened by a stranger, but… that didn't sound like a threat, somehow. It sounded more like a warning -- or a simple statement of fact. 

He thought for a moment more, then reached up and pulled off his mask. It served its purpose admirably -- both in terms of protecting his beautiful face and in striking fear in the heart of his enemies -- but he had to admit, it was not the most diplomatic of sights when trying to strike up a new friendship. 

As his face was revealed, the stranger's expression flooded with astonishment -- and recognition. "It's you!" he exclaimed. 

"Indeed, it is me," Zevran agreed. He wracked his brains, trying to figure out why this man recognized him, because he surely did not recognize the man. 

Or -- did he? It pained him to admit, but all human males kind of looked alike to Zevran. He looked closer, paying more attention to the face under the stubble and grime, to the body under the filthy clothes. Subtract ten years and a bad beard, add thirty pounds and a golden earring -- "Anders!" Zevran said brightly, the connection finally clicking into place. "My, but it has been a long time, hasn't it?" 

Anders -- for it _was_ Anders, the charming apostate healer he'd known so briefly and so _intensely_ back in Amaranthine -- took another unsteady step backwards, stumbled, and sat down abruptly and ungracefully on the soaking ground. 

He'd first seen Anders in the courtyard of Vigil's Keep, reclining on the steps up to the keep in the sunlight and watching the other Wardens drill. At the time Zevran had only marked his presence and continued on, intent on visiting his lover the Arlessa -- ah, and how delightful that was to say! Even if it had only been a temporary appointment in the end -- in her chambers. Over wine and sweets in bed later Natya had told him all about her new Warden charges, including Anders, the sad stray spirit healer in need of comforting. 

Zevran had always been especially comforting, when he'd set his mind to it. 

Their affair -- if it could be called such when carried on with the full knowledge of all parties -- had lasted barely a week, a week which Zevran looked back at with great fondness. When Zevran slipped out of the Keep to continue on his business at the end of the week, Anders had not turned up to say goodbye, which was generally how Zevran preferred it; it was hard to be stealthy when you had people marking your every move. The next time he'd visited Vigil's Keep, Anders had been gone.

The Anders that Zevran remembered had been, despite his sadness, possessed of a naturally ebullient spirit and a sensitive, giving nature. He'd also been younger, better groomed, better fed, and cleaner. Time could do a lot to change a man, but Zevran suspected there was far more unpleasantness at work here than time. 

" _May_ I approach this lovely fire you have going?" Zevran indicated the fire. The mystery of how it kept going in the wet was solved, he supposed. One of the advantages of being a mage, you carried your fire with you. "Or are you still set in your conviction that if I get too close, you will kill me?" 

Anders shook his head, looking rather bewildered. Zevran took the invitation to move forward, and his relief when he felt the heat of the fire on his body was not at all feigned. He let out an only-slightly exaggerated sigh, holding his hands out to warm them by the flames. 

Anders had not stopped staring at him. "Why are you here?" he said hoarsely. "Did -- the Crows -- send you to kill me?" 

"What? No, no," Zevran said, trying to hide his annoyance. They had been out of touch for some time; there was no reason to expect Anders to be up on his current affairs. "I do not work for the Crows. Indeed, very much the opposite. I suppose you could consider me a Crow of Crows." He smiled to himself, pleased with the wordplay. 

Anders squinted at him, obviously not following. "Come again?" 

Zevran sighed. Clearly, his brilliance was lost on this audience. "I am not here to kill you," he clarified. "In fact, I did not expect to find you here at all. I was hunting the other Crows which were giving you such trouble. Now that our paths have fortuitously crossed, however, my dear Natya would be no end of furious with me if I did not aid you." 

With a groan, Anders buried his face in his hands, dropping his head as if too tired to hold it up. "You don't know that," he muttered. "She might not be… she might be… she might think that you should have let those assassins finish their job." 

"Do not slander my love to my face," Zevran told him pleasantly. "You cannot possibly know my Natya and yet believe she would be so fickle." 

The threat startled Anders into showing his face again, regarding Zevran uneasily. "I'm not -- you don't know what I've done," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "You don't know…" 

Zevran sighed. "Clearly, there is a story to be told here," he said. "But for the telling of stories, I prefer to be sitting around a warm campfire with hot food and drink in my stomach. And you, my friend, have not slept or eaten in several days, if those Crows had the slightest semblance of competence at their job." 

Briskly he took over the campsite, unslinging his pack and stowing it in the sheltered space under the rock. He unshipped his portable cooking gear and within minutes had a flat pan of water beginning to heat over the fire, dried looseleaf tea ready to add once it boiled, and a pair of flat tin plates portioned out with bread and dried meat. 

Anders looked rather bewildered by the speed of these events, or perhaps it was the lack of sleep that was catching up to him. "Now," Zevran said, pushing one of the plates firmly into his hand. The other man fell on the simple camp food with the vigor of a starving man, which technically he probably was. "Eat, and regale me with your oh-so-scandalous story. I assure you, there is nothing in your tale that can possibly surprise me." 

Zevran expected the food to occupy his unexpected host at least until the tea was ready; so it was a surprise when after only a few bites Anders swallowed his mouthful, set the plate aside and took a breath, and said, "I was the one who destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. That's why the Crows were after me -- every Chantry from here to Tevinter has a price on my head." 

Zevran paused with his hand halfway into his pack, momentarily too astonished to respond. Well. Perhaps there _was_ still something that could surprise him. 

Well, this explained a number of wild rumors he'd heard coming out of the Free Marches in late autumn; he'd been in Rivain at the time, and quite busy. Something about a terrible Qunari attack on Kirkwall, the Chantry and the Circle destroyed, mad mages rampaging the streets, the Champion of Kirkwall mixed up in it somewhere. The rumors varied widely, growing wilder with each telling, but on one thing they agreed: an evil madman had destroyed the Chantry building, killing all inside. 

"I see," he said, and completed the movement to pull out a set of flatware and a pair of sturdy glass jars. "Jam?" 

Anders looked at the jam, and back at him, helpless confusion on his face. "Didn't you hear me?" he said. "I blew up the _Chantry._ I killed -- I must have killed a hundred people. Maybe -- maybe more. I killed a _cleric._ Don't you realize that?" 

"My dear apostate," Zevran said, scooping a generous portion of jam onto his roll. "So have I." 

The mage looked stunned, eyes opened wide and mouth dropping. Zevran pointed to the food in his hands with the jam-covered knife, a silent command, and Anders fumbled to comply. "Perhaps you are not familiar with how things are done in Antiva," Zevran continued serenely. "I do not blame you if that is the case; a lifetime of living there is hardly enough to keep all the factions and backstabbing and double-dealing straight, let alone trying to fathom it from an outsider's perspective. To put it simply, let me assure you that the Chantry is not excluded from Antivan politics, or their frequently lethal consequences. Quite the opposite in fact -- the Chantry of Antiva is one of its most active and enthusiastic players." 

"Are you saying…" Anders gulped. "Are you saying that people in Antiva actually send _assassins_ after _priests?_ " 

"Oh, all the time," Zevran assured him. "And just as often, it is the clerics and priests sending the assassins themselves. Don’t look so shocked. It is how things are done -- in Orlais as well, for that matter. I have always found the Ferelden clergy surprisingly dull and unambitious in regard, but from what I hear, the same is not so of the Free Marches?" 

Anders shook his head, confused. "I don’t… what are you saying?" 

"I am saying," Zevran said patiently, "that I hold no illusions about the clergyfolk being any less human, any more immune to temptation or corruption, than any other woman or man in a position of power. There are some perhaps who are truly dedicated to the Chant and do not indulge in such pastimes -- but in my experience, they do not tend to rise to positions of power. Power accrues to those who seek it; and so do its rewards, and so do its consequences. In Antiva, those consequences tend to be a little more fatal than most. 

"So yes, I have killed a cleric. I have killed more than one. I have killed more than your hundred. I have killed many, many people in the course of my career, my sweet renegade, and I admit I am at somewhat at a loss as to why this comes as a surprise." 

Anders buried his face in his hands again, not answering. Zevran regarded him steadily for a moment, then got up to remove the pan of boiling water from the fire. He poured the water in a battered pair of tin mugs, added dried tea leaves, and a shot from his hip flask for fortification, before he returned to his nice dry spot in front of the fire. 

"The difference between us is, of course, that I am an assassin," Zevran said nonchalantly. "And you are not -- or at least, you were not when last I saw you. I can only conclude therefore that circumstances since then have gone rather wildly out of control." 

"I --" Anders broke off the word, and a mangled chuckle escaped his throat. "Yes, I suppose you could say that." 

"So…" Zevran placed one of the mugs firmly in Anders' hand, and sat back with the other, nursing the heat of the liquid. "One does not destroy a building by accident. I have come close to destroying several in my time, so I should know. What convinced you, then, that the Kirkwall Chantry so desperately needed destroying?" 

"Oh, Maker." Another painful, cut-off laugh. "Blight. I suppose I've lost my right to say that, haven't I?" 

Zevran shrugged. 

"Where do I even start?" Anders ran a hand through his hair. "How do I even… compress seven years of a shitshow down enough to explain? How can I make someone who never lived in Kirkwall understand? How do I explain it to someone who has never seen the inside of a Circle?" 

"I've seen the inside of a Circle," Zevran pointed out mildly. "It was mostly full of demons and abominations at the time, and in the process of being Annulled by the Knight-Commander, until my dear Natya stepped in and put a stop to it." No need to explain, ten years down the road, how close Natya had come to accepting the Templars' suggestion of completing the annulment, how Zevran had to bring on his best and most passionate persuasion to change her mind. That was a secret of hers that he never felt the need to tell. 

"You were -- Of course you were there. The Hero of Ferelden, you were one of her heroic company. I should have known." Anders shot him a startled glance, an almost awed admiration that left a more bitter taste in his mouth than the tea. "Then maybe you would understand… Knight-Commander Stannard had called for an annulment. This was _before_ anything had happened -- there were no demons, no abominations, not…! She was paranoid, seeing blood magic everywhere. She was obsessed, crazed, and everyone could see it was only a matter of time before she and her cronies stopped waiting for _permission_ to slaughter an entire Tower full of innocent people." 

Zevran considered this. That seemed a reasonable impetus to act, but… "Then why not simply kill the Knight-Commander?" he said logically. "Or, if you were set on a grand statement I suppose, destroy the Templar Hall?" 

"Because the Templars are only a symptom!" Frustration, at least momentarily, pushed through the guilt that had hollowed out his being, and for a moment Zevran saw the spark of a fire that could have burned down a city. "Because all they do is in the Chantry's name, with the Chantry's authority, upholding the Chantry's edicts! Stannard might have been the one doing the dirty work and making enemies, but Elthina set her up for it and let her run her limit. Far past her limit! She could have, she should have relieved Stannard of command the first time she exceeded her mandate and started meddling in the rightful political elections of the city. She could have stepped in -- she _should_ have stepped in -- she could have _stopped_ it at any time, but she didn't, because Stannard was doing exactly what she wanted! What good would it have done to kill the Knight-Commander? Elthina would have clucked her teeth, said a few platitudes about how sad it all was, and then _appointed a replacement who was exactly like her!_

"Nothing will ever _change_ so long as we keep buying into this false belief that it's templars against mages! Who creates the Templars? The Chantry! Who teaches them, who funds them, who feeds them their murderous holy righteous doctrine? Most of them are taken from Chantry orphanages and raised on their doctrine -- the Chantry had plenty of time to teach them _peace_ and _love_ and _tolerance_ if that was what they really believed. But they don't! They don't because they built this system, and they profit from this system, and they'll never let the mages go, _never,_ so long as their power base is fundamentally invested on our exploitation!" 

Zevran's eyebrows had risen steadily as Anders' rant grew in volume and emotion. His whole attitude had changed, his posture shifting subtly along with his vocabulary and diction. Zevran had long practice in observing body language; if he didn't know better, he would have said that the man in front of him was an entirely different person from the broken-down husk he'd first seen over the stuttering fire. A world away from the gentle, carefree man he'd known and ravished a lifetime ago. 

This wasn't a personal vendetta, as he'd half-expected. This wasn't a case of self-defense, or even heroic defense of others; Zevran had traveled with enough heroes to know the format quite well. This was… political, verging onto the ideological, and it sent a chill down Zevran's spine which had nothing to do with the steady drips of the cold rain. 

It was easy to kill a man; Zevran could attest to that quite forcefully. It was not so easy to kill a _system,_ as the last few years of steady slaughter up the ranks of the Crow Masters had taught him. He could empathize with that in no small amount, even down to the unexpected focus of targets. 

It was easy to blame the Crows for murder; after all it was their hands that held the knife, that poured the poison, that pulled the garrote. But it was the men who sent the Crows, who bought the recruits, who accepted the contracts, who invested the money, whose hands were always clean and voices soft-spoken, who were the true monsters. 

And yet even they were the product of forces beyond even them -- the supply that grew to answer the demand. It was centuries worth of habit, the accepted tradition of playing politics with poison and sending messengers with murder on their mind, accepted as the cost of doing business, accepted as the price you paid to play the game. Zevran had been hunting for years now, and he had not yet found a place to sink in the knife to kill an institution. 

Oh yes, he could understand that quite well. 

"I still do not see, however," he said conversationally, "how exploding a _building_ was supposed to advance your goals. By your own logic, the forces which set up the Kirkwall Chantry are still out there, now quite incensed against magekind. Are you sure you really thought this through?" 

Anders groaned, and dropped his head into his hands. "This is nothing I haven't asked myself before," he muttered. "But what else could I do? What else was there? I tried everything else I could think of. Everything I had in my power to do. Everything that I could do… alone. It wasn't enough. The end was coming, whether I acted or not. I had to make a splash, make a noise. Do _something_ so flashy that the rest of the world couldn't ignore it, couldn't lie it away. Couldn't just pretend it never happened." 

"And now your splash is likely to start a war," Zevran pointed out. "What are you going to do next?" 

A stubborn set crimped Anders' mouth. "The war was already happening. Behind walls, where nobody could see it. All I've done was brought it out into the open -- made it everybody's problem now, not just ours." 

Zevran sighed. "You are not taking my meaning, my friend," he said. "Clearly, you have started something. You have, indeed, made your great splash, shaken the foundations of the world. You've moved a great weight, and set it rolling down a long hillside. My question, which you still have not answered, is this: what do you intend to do _now?"_  

Anders stared at him, shocked speechless. Zevran waited patiently, but despite several tries, he didn't seem to be able to form the words. "I don't…" he said at last, his voice strangled. "I don't know, I don't… I didn't… I wasn't supposed to survive at all. I don't know why he… I don't know why I'm still alive. I should be dead, I should have _died,_ but I just can't seem to…" 

Well. That had certainly gone to a dark place in a hurry. 

Anders was shaking, falling apart as visibly as the ragged clothes off his back. Zevran decided that the pragmatic approach was called for. "Well, you are alive still," he said in a calm voice, "so perhaps you should start acting like it. Eat. Drink. Sleep. In the morning, we will decide what to do with you." 

Zevran picked up the plate and picked up his hand, and placed the food firmly back in it. Anders went along with his direction, seeming shocked lifeless, like an automaton carrying outs a series of commands. 

With some difficulty Zevran got him to finish the meal; it was a scant amount of food, but more than he'd had in a while, Zevran judged. He got him wrapped in a blanket between the fire and the sheltering cliffs face (technically the blanket belonged to the late Crows, but they were not using it any more, now were they?) with the promise of keeping watch; driven far past the point of exhaustion, it did not take him long to drop off. 

Zevran stayed awake, taking watch as promised, though not taking it seriously to move out of the warmth of the campfire. He stared into the dark, the unseen falling rain, and thought. 

The last time Zevran had encountered Anders, they'd spent a delightful few days in bed together, showing off their best respective sexual skills. It had been a fond memory, and if he'd ever expected to cross paths with Anders again, he would have looked forward to the opportunity for a reprise. 

Not now, not with Anders so ruined, so distraught and worn down and lost in darkness. Now he needed a different kind of comfort, a different kind of love. Natya would never forgive him if he did not help her cherished friend now, he was sure; for that alone he would have done whatever he could to help. 

But it was not for Natya's sake alone that he stayed awake in the deepening night, keeping watch over the guttering flames. He remembered too well what it was like to be lost in that darkness, so consumed with guilt that you thought your own existence was a stain on the world, one which could only be corrected in death. He remembered what it was like; and he also knew that it was possible to climb out of that pit again, to find healing and purpose enough to move on.

 

* * *

 

Anders slept late into the morning, which perhaps did not surprise him given his level of debilitation. Zevran had had time to scout the area, determine there was nothing within miles that could pose a danger, and pot a few careless rabbits for breakfast. 

It was the smell of cooking breakfast that eventually roused the mage; he looked adorably lost and confused when he was sleepy, his bloodshot eyes squinting against even the wan light of the winter morning. Sometime in the night it had stopped raining, thank the Maker; the clear spell wasn't likely to last long, but Zevran was not going to take a reprieve for granted. 

"Good morning," Zevran said cheerfully. "I have procured breakfast in bed, where breakfast is seared rabbit with no dressing, and bed is a soaked blanket on a muddy ground, but it is the thought that counts, as they say." 

"It certainly does," Anders said, sounding bemused. He stirred himself to get up -- even folded the blanket neatly, which was more than the rag of cloth deserved -- and came over to break bread with the assassin. 

The night's rest seemed to have revived his appetite, as well; Anders ate the breakfast of camp rations with a much greater enthusiasm than he had shown last night. 

"Now," Zevran said, putting the remains of breakfast aside. "I believe we had some unanswered questions about your next move." 

"We do?" Anders said. 

"Certainly," Zevran said. "I think we can agree that wandering around the wilderness in the middle of the winter, waiting for some unpleasant weather or passing Crows to finish one off, is _not_ a sustainable long-term plan, yes?" 

"I guess not," Anders muttered sheepishly. He rubbed his red-chapped hands together, frowning in thought. "I guess… I guess I need to go to the Towers and help them to rise up." 

Zevran smirked at the unintended innuendo, but let it fade as he considered the puzzle. "You might start with Rivain," he said. "The Chantry's hold on that country has always been tenuous. It would make a good place to build up your base of power." 

Anders winced. "I just hope they'll have me," he said in a low voice. "Even… even the people who supported the cause of mages think that I went too far. If the Gallows mages are any indication, I'll be a pariah in any Chantry-run Circle." 

"Then perhaps your focus should be on creating a mage community outside of Chantry control," Zevran said, easily tacking into the new headwind. "I know of a Mage Collective in Ferelden; we have done some jobs for them on occasion. Oh! Perhaps you could go to Orzammar," Zevran offered, the idea occurring to him in a burst of inspiration. "The Warden helped found an outlaying mage school there, but it has never been under Chantry control -- there is no corresponding Templar outpost. And King Bhelen would be a strong ally, if you choose to court him." 

"The dwarven king?" Anders said with surprise. "He'd never ally himself with me." 

"He might," said Zevran thoughtfully. "He's a reformer, and he bears no allegiance to the Chant of Light or its armies. Plus his kingdom's chief export is lyrium. If it came down to a choice whether to ally himself with the Chantry or with the mages, he would follow where his economic interests lead." 

Anders looked taken aback by this unconventional twist of thought. "I didn't think dwarves cared much for mages," he said. 

Zevran shrugged. "Neither do they despise them, as you humans seem to," he said. "But the dwarves do have a great respect for the Grey Wardens, of which you are one.  

"For the dwarves, the Blight is never over. Bhelen has been petitioning for some time for aid in pushing back the darkspawn in the Deep Roads, reclaiming the lost kingdoms of the dwarves, but the kingdoms of the surface have declined to send any. An army of free mages would be a great asset to him. He could shelter your people." Zevran turned back to Anders, pinning him with an intense gaze. "But only if there is a free mage leader with whom he can treat." 

"I... but…" Anders looked flummoxed; but at least, Zevran thought, he was _thinking_ again, not simply staying mired in his unhappy rut of self-recrimination and guilt. "But doesn't Orzammar have peace treaties with the other kingdoms? I'm a criminal. He would be obliged to turn me over." 

That was indeed a problem. Fortunately, there was a solution. "Not if you join the Legion of the Dead," he said, thinking of the harrowing expedition in the Deep Roads at Natya's side. "A few topsiders have, in the past." 

He'd learned a great deal about the Legion from the dwarves of Orzammar, and even more from Natya; the casteless were largely uneducated on matters of law, but all of them knew about the pardon of crimes granted to those who joined the Legion. For many of the casteless, with no recourse for an honest living, a career in crime ending in a place in the Legion was their only path in life. "By dwarven law and tradition, all crimes are pardoned once you become a Legionnaire. Bhelen could use that excuse to refuse to extradite you." 

"He could but --" Anders faltered. "Why would he?" 

"Let us not forget that you have the protection of the Hero of Ferelden," Zevran reminded him. "Bhelen owes her his crown, and he knows it. If she calls in a few favors, he won't refuse." 

He was fairly confident that on this point he could speak with Natya's voice. Though she had come to the surface with a dwarf's distrust in all things uncanny, over the desperate Ferelden campaign she'd become more and more appreciative of the advantages magic could offer, and less and less enamored with what she considered "stone-blind surfacer prejudices" against mages and elves. She was a vocal critic of the Circle, completely unimpressed by the Chantry, and -- even if that had not been true -- she was undyingly loyal to her friends. 

"But why..." Anders' voice was unsteady, his expression slowly crumpling. "Why would she… for me…" 

"Why would she not?" Zevran said, and then he made his voice as gentle as he could. "My clever mage. Is it so hard to believe? There are still some who love you." 

Anders broke.

Zevran was half-expecting it; he knew all the games of deflection and denial, how to cover up deep raw feelings with sarcasm and jest, and he knew exactly how to get past those defenses to cut to the heart of the matter. He was half-expecting Anders to break down, the little tenuous strength he'd regained from his ordeal to give out and leave him defenseless. 

But he had not quite been expecting the depth of Anders' anguish, the raw pain and grief that poured out of him in sobs that seemed like they would tear his fragile ribcage in half. Zevran moved up to hold him, an arm around his back and side to hold him together, a warm and steady presence. 

There was more in these tears than weariness and gratitude, Zevran realized when the keening cries did not abate, the anguished tears did not cease. This was heartbreak, the desolation of recent loss. This was the sound of someone whose lover had died, leaving them bereft -- or perhaps one whose lover had betrayed them. 

He knew. He knew the pain of both, only too well. 

It was a long time before the storm spent itself, leaving Anders laid low in the cold mud of the Free Marches winter. Zevran stayed with him, knowing that nothing he could say or do would mean more than his simple presence. 

When at last he thought the grief had burnt itself out, he pulled Anders up beside him; took his hands, leaned down towards his tear-ravaged face and kissed him on the forehead. 

"You must not give up," Zevran told him softly, willing every word to sear itself into Anders' brain. "If you stop now, then the world will only ever remember you as a killer. You must press on. Make something of these sacrifices, do not let them be in vain. Make the world anew." 

He squeezed Anders' hands tightly, willing some of the strength in his own bloodied hands to pass on. "And if they try to stop you -- those whose thrones were forged from blood and bone -- then cut the bastards down." 

Anders shuddered, but did not answer. After a long, long time, he moved his head in a nod. 

"We will," he said. 

 

* * *

 

~the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is! The story idea that started the whole thing. Literally the whole thing. I wrote the outline for this fic over a year ago, and Zevran's off-hand suggestion of an alliance with Orzammar -- which was really only him brainstorming as many options as he could think of -- sparked the entirety of One Elegant Solution.
> 
> If you can believe it, the only reason I came up with this fic in the first place was because I was having sad Anders feels post-Kirkwall and was getting very tired of literally every other character lining up to denounce him as an evil murderer. I wanted him to meet one person -- just one person -- who would fully support him and not judge him for his actions; both Hawke and the Warden _can_ do this, of course, but your Warden is not everybody else's Warden.
> 
> I settled on Zevran because Zevran has always been an unapologetic killer, callous to the point where my mage-warden was quite put off by him, and Zevran has a nasty streak of ruthless practicality and no illusions at all about the realities of politics. Combined with his current self-appointed mission to rid the world of Crows, I thought there was no one in the world better placed than Zevran to both accept Anders without judgment and also offer practical support and pragmatic advice.


End file.
